


Paint Myself in Blue and Red.

by Lestradesexwife



Series: Tattooed Doctor Watson [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Greg has a dirty mouth, Het and Slash, M/M, Oral Sex, Post Reichenbach, Tattoos, Threesome - F/M/M, john has a skin addiction, mentions of former mrs. lestrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-16 04:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John spends a year waiting and tattooing random strangers. One Friday night Greg walks in to the shop looking to cover up something from his past.</p><p>Following, but not directly after "The Adventure of the Tattooed Doctor"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I knew Picasso

**Author's Note:**

> Again all my thanks to Provocatrixxx, prettyarbitrary, and Interrosand... And the rest of the Antidiogenes crew.

John tries not to measure time in increments since Sherlock. He acknowledges the passing of time like everyone around him. Remembers Mrs. Hudson’s birthday, remembers Mary’s too. That doesn’t stop him from knowing to the minute how long it has been since Sherlock said goodbye. He doesn’t allow himself to wallow in it; he’s aware, he knows, but he keeps it to himself. He is after all British and male.

****

That he works too much is probably a given, he responds to stress by throwing himself full force into whatever is causing the stress. Now there is nothing left for him to throw himself at; Sherlock is gone, he’s coming back slips like a mantra into each of his thoughts, Moriarty is either dead or doesn’t find John interesting enough on his own. Or perhaps he and Sherlock truly are happy together. _No no NO, he’s coming back_.

****

Medicine? Well medicine no longer holds any allure for him.

****

He grieves. The occasional stranger will stop him in the street, or people Sherlock helped, victims saved. John nearly bumped into the wife of the banker they’d rescued, she spit on his shoes and called him a monster.

****

It is safer in the shop. The disconnect is strong enough there that even people who think they recognize him don’t bring it up for fear of being wrong. And tattoo artists are like bartenders and hairdressers, they are only expected to make comforting noises of encouragement and listen to the client’s problems. No one needs to know who he is. After Sherlock, listening to twenty somethings rant about the system, or their teachers, parents, lovers... it is all easy.

****

He books appointments, builds a customer base and takes referrals. Mary recommends him for cover-ups. He likes the challenge, taking the image that is already in the skin and distorting it so that it becomes a part of something better.

****

“John, the five-thirty is here for you.” Mary’s voice pushes him back in time. They could have been ten years in the past. They had taken up where they left off, with one important exception. She hadn’t asked and he hadn’t offered.

****

“Ta, M. Gimmie a mo to finish with this.” John’s just finished a walk-in, he’s wiping down the chair, swapping in clean instruments. It feels like field surgery, nearly, except here the screaming is voluntary. People are only metaphorically dying to get a tattoo.

****

He surveys his station, content with the order and cleanliness. The walk-in meant that he hasn’t had a chance for dinner, but he squares his shoulders and puts on his best, ‘I’m very happy to be tattooing you on a Friday night at half five.’ smile.

****

He stops, tries to remember if Mary had told him the client’s name. Decides that she only mentioned that he had a cover booked for half five. He’d grunted and gone back to the light table, tracing lines of text from an old letter. He could photocopy it, but this gives him a better feel for the words, the texture of emotion conveyed. Mary might have said the name, and John wasn’t in any position to listen, certainly wouldn’t have made the connection.

****

There are, after all, any number of Greg’s in the city. “Greg?”

****

He’s startled, surprised and nervous. “John... what?”

****

“Of all the tattoo shops in all the cities?”

****

“You...” Greg shakes his head. “Wait... you are a tattoo...er?”

****

“Yup!” John decides in that moment that he will make the best of this, he doesn’t blame Greg for what happened. _Sherlock is coming back_. In a flash that stabs somewhere near his heart he realizes that Greg might blame himself, that Greg doesn’t know, and no small part of Greg’s nervousness will be coming from the fact that he’s been wallowing in guilt and avoidance for the better part of a year. John doesn’t know how to fix this for Greg, he can only offer an out. “Ah... If you don’t... I can book you in with someone else?”

****

Greg’s spine straightens and his fingers twitch against the cuffs of his jacket, he’s dressed like he’s just come from the Yard. John suffers another moment of sadness/frustration/melancholy, he’s been so fixated on waiting for Sherlock to come back that he has abandoned so much of the rest of his life. He inhales sharply against a year of missed pub nights with Greg.

****

All of the hesitation falls away from Greg. “No, I really need to get this done... er... well maybe started. I need to do this now.”

****

John’s smile is warm, and he feels the weight of Greg’s potential rejection lift. “Where is it then?”

****

Greg raises his right hand, touches his left bicep.

****

“Do you know what you want?”

****

“I was thinking a big fucking black square, honestly. Part of me doesn’t care. I just want to not see... I don’t want to look at it anymore.”

****

John tilts his head, gestures for Greg to follow him into his cubicle. “I can do a black square, but... depending on what it is, sometimes it will show through... the old tattoo, depending on how it was done. Anyway, get that kit off and let me see it... then we can decide what to do.”

****

Greg shucks himself out of his jacket, hanging it on a hook on the cubicle wall. His fingers pause over the buttons of his shirt.

****

John realizes he’s never seen Greg in anything less than long sleeves. “Do you want a minute?”

****

“I.. it’s... no one has seen it, for ages.”

****

“Tea? There is coffee... it might be hours old though.”

****

“Ta, tea would do it.”

****

John turns and leaves Greg, removing himself to make a cuppa with a smile. “Do you still take milk?” John calls from the other side of the large room.

****

“Yes, ta.”

****

By the time John comes back with a steaming mug, Greg has settled in the tattoo chair. Stripped down to his vest, his jaw is locked, staring at the far wall.

****

“There you are,” John hands over the mug, waits until Greg takes a sip before moving around to stand in front of him. “As bad as that?”

****

“Isn’t there some rule about names?”

****

John flinches, waits for Greg to sip his tea again. “Alright then... Can I see? I’d do it blindfolded... can’t say that I’d get it all.”

****

Greg laughs, small and dry and barely more than an exhale. “Yeah, go on.”

****

It really isn’t that bad, properly done for all that it is a transfixed heart with a ribbon that reads ‘Rebecca.’ Not for the first time John wishes it was illegal to have names incorporated into tattoos, but then Greg wouldn’t be sitting in his chair. “Yeah, I can do a black square and cover it up... or a pattern if you like, give you a band around the arm... The colours, sometimes they resurface... so you might need to have it touched up as the black settles.”

****

John snaps on gloves and runs his fingers over Greg’s bicep, noting the texture of his skin even through the latex. “Be a bit of a shame... I could give you a... all the kids have them now, but Koi are... it would suit you.”

****

John looks away as Greg thinks; obviously he’s been thinking about getting rid of the tattoo on his arm for a while. John calculates, its been a year and a half since Baskerville, which might mean that this is the anniversary of the divorce. John’s surprised Greg hasn’t tried to carve the heart off his arm, John can’t imagine living with a reminder like that everyday.

****

“A great bloody fish?”

****

“It wouldn’t be huge... well... no it would, just here to here.” John indicates the top of Greg’s shoulder to the curve of his elbow, feeling unaccountably greedy for Greg’s skin. He hasn’t worked on anyone he... other than Sherlock... no one else has mattered. He feels like he is laying claim to a part of Greg, and removing his ex from Greg’s skin is a challenge John wants to accept. “I’d work the colours in, and the scales cover a multitude of sins. Sort of a what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger type thing... Take it and turn it into something new.”

****

Greg clears his throat, shifting against the padding of the chair. “That sounds like a lot of... time.”

****

“I’d do the outline, and the colour around that, today. You’ll probably have to come back for more colour and finishing.” John narrows his eyes, “You... aren’t a screamer, are you?”

****

“John, I don’t think I can afford all that.” Greg ignored the comment about screaming altogether.

****

John snorts, offended. “Your money is no good here, officer.”

****

Greg tries, and John almost takes pity on him. But this is as much for John as it is for Greg. John can’t say that his motivations are entirely altruistic. He wants Greg to have a reason to come back. The tattoo feels like an olive branch.

****

John wins in the end, by brute force. John wrangled Sherlock into doing things he didn’t want to do for eighteen months, Greg didn’t stand a chance. John spins his chair away and begins to draw. He ignores Greg’s last sputtered attempts to bribe John with cash.

****

The koi flows out of John’s pen, and it feels like a new beginning. He thinks he has drawn thousands of them... the detail work is good practice, koi and roses.

****

Greg sits still for the placement. Doesn’t fuss when John wipes it off, presses a fresh copy against his skin, slightly lower and to the left of the original.

****

John lets him up to look in the mirror. Greg is silent when he comes back, only nods. John wonders if they have run out of words, finishes preparing his inks and needles in silence. He pauses for a moment, right hand on Greg’s arm, left poised with the machine. “Are you ready?”

****

“Yeah, on you go.”

****

Greg, as John suspected is not a screamer. He accepts the sting of the tattoo with something approaching relief, going boneless under John’s fingers and relaxing back into the chair. John has tattooed several people who sleep through the entire tattoo, and part of his mind is greedy for the freedom that would give him to push detail into Greg’s skin. Another part of him wants to... do something to bring Greg back.

****

He glances up at Greg’s face, while he pauses for more ink. He’s relaxed; totally at ease and open, the lines on his face have smoothed and he looks five years younger. John pushes aside the desire to bring Greg up, settles into a rhythm - ink, pedal, line, wipe - working his way up Greg’s arm. He’s already mapping out the pattern of scale colours, with Greg under like this he might be able to work until the piece is finished... which will hurt like Hades tomorrow... John flinches, if he finishes tonight Greg won’t have any reason to come back. John hadn’t acknowledged the lack of Greg’s presence in his daily life. The surprise reunion makes him wish he could go back in time and never lose touch with Greg.

****

John huffs. In the beginning it had been difficult to pretend Sherlock was dead. He just wanted to scream at everyone, the false sympathy from people who didn’t care about him. Didn’t know his skin well enough to not be fooled. He’d tried to talk to... well anyone. But the conversations always reached a certain point, ‘John, denial and bargaining are healthy parts of the grieving process. He’s dead, you need to work through it.’ _Yes, thank you for your opinion_.

****

“I could use a cigarette.”

****

Greg’s voice startles John out of his thoughts and he swipes at the tattoo, making sure he hasn’t strayed from his outline. He’s either very lucky or very good, because the pattern of scales is unbroken. “I’d thought you quit.”

****

“Did, will again. Just taking a holiday.”

****

“Yeah... alright, lemme wrap it...” John rolls cling film around Greg’s arm, smoothing it down. “How’s it feel?”

****

Greg’s arm tenses and relaxes under Johns fingers, “Yeah... good.” He’s still monosyllabic and John feels a rush of almost forgotten chemicals. He strips off his gloves and tosses them in the bin.

****

“There’s a bench round the back. C’mon.” John leads the way through the back of the shop and out into the alley way, propping open the door with a decorative rock to stop it latching. Mary’s rigged up a little alcove behind their door, latticework fencing blocking off the view of the bins. There isn’t really enough sunlight, but she is coaxing a vine of some sort up the lattice, all in all it is quite cozy and on warm afternoons John eats his lunch on the bench.

****

“I’d... I just never imagined you in a place like this.” Greg pulls a pack from the inside pocket of his jacket, flicks a lighter against the gathering darkness.

****

“Mary and I, we came up together. When I went away to the army she stayed in town and... You though... What are you doing in a place like this?”

****

“Pretty much the last place you would look for me isn’t it. I’m not hiding from her, I just can’t be anywhere she might find me. Which is stupid. She’s not looking for me. She got the flat, and I don’t have to pay her... one of the perks of divorcing a CPS solicitor. I guess this is the one time I’m glad we didn’t have kids.” He inhales, and the sound of burning leaves and paper is sharp against the silence. “I just wanted something different.”

****

John nods, tries not to let himself imagine just how much different Greg is looking for. He pokes at his own emotions, he hasn’t been with anyone since Sherlock, hasn’t wanted to and it hasn’t seemed a hardship. The few abortive attempts at conversation, the single time John had tried to distract Sherlock from a case, and the rather suggestive text message at Baskerville all led John to believe that Sherlock’s definition of relationship was rather more fluid than John was used to. It was a relief, he’d felt... free. Sherlock would have laughed, called him tiny minded, but there wasn’t room in his life for anyone else, but knowing that he could... if he needed to. Sherlock wasn’t here to ask now... but “Tell Lestrade...” rang in his head.

****

He is getting ahead of himself. Greg’s here to smooth over the memory of his ex-wife in ink, he wasn’t expecting John to be the one holding the machine. And even if he did know John was here...

John took a step forward, raising his hand slowly, giving Greg a chance to pull the cigarette away. Their fingers brush, sometimes a cigarette is absolutely not just a cigarette. Greg lets it go reluctantly, he’s only had half after all. John almost feels sorry for him, but by then he is too caught up in watching Greg’s reaction. “This is a terrible habit.” He brings the cigarette to his lips and draws smoke into his lungs, holding his breath and Greg’s gaze until he feels the zing of nicotine and adrenaline in his blood.

****

“Yes Doctor.”

****

“I’m not a doctor anymore... jesus, don’t say that too loud. All the kids that come in here will start calling me Doc. We need to get that outline finished.” He bends and crushes the cigarette into the bucket of sand at the end of the bench. He exhales, letting the smoke sting his eyes, the work unfinished overriding the desire to tackle Greg.

****

John straightens, and there is a hardness in Greg’s eyes when John looks again. Something swift and predatory and not at all discouraging, John feels the corner of his mouth curl up. Tilts his head back towards the shop.

****

Greg goes ahead, and the warmth of the shop flows over John. Mary is just pulling down the blinds on the front windows, the closed sign already hanging in the door. She smiles at him, “You’ll lock up when you are done, ya? I’ve got a date I don’t want to be late for.”

****

John puts on his best shocked expression, “Me... all alone? Whatever shall I do?”

****

Mary punches John in the shoulder, hard. Eyes up Greg. “Don’t let this one give you trouble.”

****

“I think I can handle him.”

****

Mary grins, throws a saucy wink from the door. “I’m sure you can... don’t do anything I wouldn’t boys.” She’s gone before John can come up with a response, he’d blush but he’s long since gotten over any embarrassment Mary has tried to cause him.

****

“Shall we?” John hold out his hand to gesture Greg back into the booth.

****

Greg smirks, “She’s a fun one.”

****

“You’ve no idea.”

****

“You and her?” Greg’s appraising now, settled back into the chair and John can almost feel the slide of information behind Greg’s eyes.

****

“Before I left for the war. She’s got some man in international sales. He’s always popping off on business, never in town for long. She has to catch him when she can.” John opens the wrapping and checks the rest of the outline. “Maybe a half hour more?”

****

“So?”

****

John looks up, the weight of the question pulling him closer to Greg. “No...” He pulls back and sets out fresh ink. “Not since.”

****

“John... I’m sorry. I should have done something...”

****

John is glad they aren’t touching now, that he doesn’t have to feel Greg’s pulse under his skin when he says this. He doesn’t need Greg’s sympathy - _Sherlock is coming back_. Greg doesn’t need the guilt either, so John unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You couldn’t have... There was nothing to do. He made me his note and there was nothing I could do to stop him.”

****

John swallows, he’s not trying to shift blame to himself. Wonders if he can tell Greg that Sherlock faked it all, one big lie to cover up all the truth. “He said ‘Alone is what I have, alone protects me.’ I don’t think anyone could have changed it. He wanted me to tell you he was a fake and a liar.” _He’s not dead, he’s coming back_.

****

“He never was. He can’t have, they made us go back over everything. We found things in cases he never worked on, cases he didn’t even know about that pointed back to Moriarty. The Chief, he thought it was just him being clever. He’d never do anything that sick. He wasn’t.” Greg trails off, realizing that he is preaching to the choir. “I shouldn’t have doubted him. I’m sorry.”

****

“He never makes anything easy.”

****

“No. He does like to complicate things.”

****

_He’s coming back, would that complicate this Greg?_

****

John tests the machine, dips into his inks and turns back to Greg. “You ready?”

****

Greg lets his head drop back against the headrest. “Do your worst, Doc.”

****

John huffs and pulls Greg’s skin tight, pressing the tattoo back to his skin. The outline only needs the head and whiskers to be complete, but Greg is no longer smooth and pliant under John’s hands. He’s fighting for his relaxation now.

****

“Breaks are a bad idea.”

****

“Yup, breaks are terrible. Your skin gets used to not hurting, and then coming back is twice as prickly. We are almost done though, well almost to a point where your arm will look like you have a tattoo... Done is wishful thinking at this point.”

****

Greg exhales and some of the tension runs out of him. John smiles and concentrates on the curve of the koi’s head. He needs to colour in some of the scales in the body, to erase Rebecca’s name from Greg’s arm. This part will be over too quickly, but if he wants proper colour Greg will have to come back, and John has to content himself with that.

****

Greg is just starting to float when John finishes everything he deems necessary. He pauses, weighing immediate satisfaction against future gratification. The former heart now looks like a pattern in the scales, but the rest of the fish is uncoloured. John tells himself he can do the rest of the black scales, leaving the white and colour for the next appointment, but leaving Greg with something that looks balanced.

****

John pulls back, sprays down Greg’s arm and wipes it with a flannel, turning the arm and the light at the same time to check for gaps or bad patches. He changes his gloves and pulls out a tub of the aftercare balm Mary makes. Working the balm into Greg’s skin brings Greg back up and he turns his head, trying to see through John’s hands.

****

“You’ll crane your neck.... There. Go look.”

****

Greg lifts himself slowly out of the chair, his motions still languid and relaxed. The spike of desire that travels through John nearly draws a groan from his lips. He digs his fingers into his knees before standing to follow Greg to the big mirror in the front room.

****

Greg is half turned away from the mirror, standing in the light. John moves to stand beside the mirror, looking only at Greg, not his reflection.

****

“God, John. It’s gone!”

****

The koi flows up towards Greg’s shoulder, unfinished to John’s eye but well begun. “It needs more colour, and a wave. You’ll have to come back.”

****

“I... yeah, I’ll be back. Work is...”

****

“Yeah I know... I’ll give you my card. I have all my stuff at the flat. You can... I can work on you whenever.” The idea of having to wait for Greg to call him fills John with panic, he swallows against the desire beg Greg for an appointment. Something that John will be able to look forward to, instead of the pathetic hope that Greg hasn’t forgotten him.

****

John goes back to the cubicle, pulls out more cling film and balm. He stands in front of Greg at the mirror and rubs more balm into his skin, wraps it in cling film. “Leave that on a day. If you can get away without showering don’t... Soap will sting like a bitch.”

****

His fingers don’t want to leave Greg’s skin, he needs something to hold onto. He can picture how this will go, he feels as though there are hooks in his knees, ratcheting him down. Pulling him over the edge and onto the floor. Greg would grow hard in his mouth, filling him until John chokes and gasps. John has a condom in his wallet, kept there against any sense or logic. Greg could wrap his fingers around John’s neck, take him against the wall, slick with Mary’s bloody aftercare balm.

****

John wants all of those things, but his knees are locked and his mouth is closed. He’s properly afraid Greg will reject him, pity him, or have him sectioned because _Sherlock is coming back_ is bursting against John’s teeth, his tongue can’t form other words. _Please_ , or _Greg_ , or even _Yes_.

****

“John?” Greg’s fingers close over John’s wrist and John’s knees buckle momentarily. Greg’s specific gravity overcoming John’s fears and doubts.

****

John has no evidence to offer, no photos of Sherlock bathed in John’s inks. No witnesses to call to corroborate his story. He knows that, even if he could prove it he would sound like a besotted teenager. _He’s coming back, he’s coming back for me._

****

“I want it to mean something.” John surprises himself by being able to speak, and that he does. He can’t now, with the real possibility in front of him, imagine catching Greg on the rebound from Rebecca - having just this moment and nothing more. Greg is important. He mattered to Sherlock and he matters to John. The idea of going back to the flat without Greg... of going back to being alone and waiting for Sherlock. _No, not anymore, I can’t_.

****

Greg is close, warm and - holding John up -one hand on John’s wrist, the other arm across John’s shoulders, supporting John’s weight against his chest. Greg’s lips brush against John’s hair, “I’m sorry John, I should have... Oh god, I missed you and I didn’t even know. Please, we don’t have to...” He stoppers his mouth against John’s skull.

****

John can hear the beating of Greg’s heart, high and fast and close, keeping time. “I’m not designed for this. I didn’t know how broken I was until him. I’m not good at this, but I want it to mean something.”

****

Greg’s arms tighten around John, and he lets his own arms snake around Greg’s waist. He’d stand there forever, given the option to remain still and inside this embrace. The things he wants can wait, they could tell everyone it is performance art and sell tickets. Greg doesn’t say anything and John is grateful he doesn’t try to deny that John is damaged. John’s fingers curl into the soft warm cotton of Greg’s vest, and he inhales deeply, savouring the scent: cigarettes, coffee, the sharp green of aloe and tea tree leaking from under the cling film.

****

He’s so close, with his forehead on Greg’s right shoulder, all he needs to do is turn his head and he can run his tongue over the exposed skin at Greg’s throat. Greg’s breath is warm against his scalp. He tastes of salt and smoke, Greg inhales sharply at the touch of John’s tongue.

****

“Will you come home with me?” John lets it escape from his mouth before his brain can second guess.

****

Greg pulls back, twisting until he can see John’s face. “Yes, fuck yes.” He presses closer, pauses and gives John a chance to pull back or slide away before his lips catch against John’s. He’s gentle, asking permission and John lets his lips fall open. If he wasn’t pressed against Greg from lips to thighs he would collapse now, because he needs this, and he has to push away thoughts of how it felt with Sherlock. This isn’t Sherlock, and it isn’t cheating. He’s... well he isn’t free, but he’s not going to waste away pining for Sherlock either. Greg is here and his fingers are digging into the back of John’s neck.

****

“Fuck, cab, tube, motorcycle, fucking TARDIS... how... god, Greg, fuck... Please take me home.”

****

“Yeah, alright.” Greg’s smiling and stroking his hands down John’s back. “Just... Mary said to close up yeah?”

****

John groans, detaches himself from Greg by increments. Once they are apart John breaks free and starts moving around the room with purpose. He shakes out a sheet and tucks his tray against the chair in his cubicle, throwing a sheet over the whole mess, the universal signal for ‘Fuck off I was tired and I’ll clean it up in the morning.’ The back door locks automatically, but John checks it anyway. Turns off the lights in the back room and blesses Mary for turning on the sterilizer. His blood is singing, tension and desire warring with the necessity of not having the shop ransacked in the night. Greg stands still in the centre of John’s activity, watching with darkened eyes. John feels the pull of his gravity again, the desire to kneel at his feet, he could and Greg would let him.

****

He sways, checking over the shop one last time, he needs to have Greg at home. Needs to make this more than something disposable, momentary. He retrieves Greg from the centre of the room, lets himself take hold of Greg’s elbow and flow with his movements, drawn in for another slow warm kiss.

****

He pulls Greg towards the door, impatient now that he’s free of the constraints of duty. “Hang on, my coat.”

****

Greg bundles his shirt and jacket together, folds it down and pushes it under his arm. It should be too cold out for him to be outside in his vest, but John raises his hand after he locks the door and a cab pulls up, whisking them off the sidewalk in an instant. In the cab their fingers touch, brushes of contact hidden from an anonymous cabbie. John checks now, always careful to look at them, he’s not expecting Jim, but he hadn’t expected Jim the first time either.

****

They’ve hit a golden time in London traffic, a moment when it is too early for the pubs and late enough that most of the commuters have gone home. The ride across London is quiet, the cabbie doesn’t make small talk and John can’t speak for fear he will spill forth with all his desires... how easy it would be to open Greg’s fly and fold himself down, let Greg use his mouth, hard and fast and over before the cabbie can find somewhere to pull over to throw them out.

****

They struggle briefly, before John lets Greg pay the fare. He holds the door open to 221B, waits for Greg to sort out his notes and turn to see where they are. John waits to see if the air goes out of Greg’s lungs, if he will scold John or pity him. Greg smiles, looks up at the windows before joining John in the doorway.

****

John’s old room at the top of the stairs is disused, dusty and cold. He hesitates at the sitting room door before pushing it open and letting Greg in. The flat hasn’t changed much in the last year, there are still two computers on the desk in the sitting room. Books and papers crowd every surface. The kitchen table gets used more often for food, but there is only the bare necessities of bachelor life in the fridge. “I have beer, if you want.” John feels transported back in time, awkwardly bringing home a partner for the first time. He tidies the empty tea mug and toast plate off the kitchen table, dropping them in the sink.

****

Greg has dropped his jacket and shirt on one of the chairs by the desk, and John’s heart kicks as Greg flips through the papers John has left scattered there. Sherlock’s progress, through whatever mysterious mission he is on is charted there... news clippings of arrests made, lost valuables mysteriously returned and the occasional political scandal. All circumstantial, all completely possible without Sherlock’s hand in them but all containing the same texture, the fingerprint of wrongs righted that is so essential to Sherlock’s work.

****

“Greg... I can...” but John can’t explain... not without telling Greg the truth, not without admitting that he has known all the time.

****

Greg lets the news clipping fall from his fingers. “You know?”

****

“I put music on his skin. It wasn’t there when I took his pulse. I... I couldn’t at first... I thought it had leaked out... It was him on the phone... I fell too. I don’t know what happened to him.” John’s frozen, clutching the back of his chair so hard he can hear the upholstery creaking.

****

It is possible that he closed his eyes, but he might have blacked out for a second, he’s swaying and Greg is holding him up. The relief of no longer being alone, of having someone to believe him moulds itself together with the warmth of Greg’s hands on his skin, the tripping sensation of his heart beating.

****

“He’s coming back.” It is spoken into Greg’s shirt, and John marvels at how Greg can be so supportive, can hold him so close and make him feel strong, whole again.

****

“Yeah, he is... I won’t... you don’t have to choose. Now or later... It is fine”

****

“I’m so tired. Will you stay, please? I want you to stay, but I need to sleep. Please.”

****

Greg smiles, and John can feel it against his forehead. “Yeah, let’s go.” Greg pulls him away from his chair, leads him down the hall to the bedroom. They stop in the loo, share a toothbrush, Greg standing behind John as he brushes his teeth.

****

In the bedroom John’s eyes are greedy, drinking in the sight of Greg as they strip down to pants and vests. Under the covers he lets his hands explore, slow and sleepy. Greg’s warmth seeps into him, pulling him down until he barely feels the brush of Greg’s lips over his as sleep claims him.

 


	2. Whenever I breathe out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey look! Morning sex!
> 
> Trigger warnings for barebacking and not entirely healthy life choices... Also just the _barest_ hint of a possible daddy kink.

John wakes, dragging himself into the world. There is no confusion, no momentary forgetfulness; he’d gone to sleep with Greg pressed against his side and he wakes with Greg wrapped around him, one arm under John’s neck, the other heavy over his stomach. Morning erections don’t mean anything, the hard line of Greg’s pressed into the curve of John’s back... it could just be a reaction to the contact and the body’s automatic maintenance. The warm grumble that greets John when he moves his hips and the press of lips against his nape could still be Greg’s sleep addled brain. 

 

The murmured,  “John.” and the motion of Greg’s hips to meet John’s next movement... well that is a more definite sign. John fights the urge to rush, to accomplish this before Greg has a chance to wake up all the way and change his mind. He can take his time, Greg isn’t going to evaporate. He rolls, pulling away only enough to snag the corner of the bedside table drawer and pull it open. The lube is simple, leaning in the corner of the drawer nearest his fingers. The rest of the drawer is filled with Sherlock’s toys, no longer organized in his sock drawer, a jumble of silicon and potential energy. There are condoms in there somewhere as well, but John would have to pry his eyes open all the way to find them.

 

“Do you want a condom?”

 

“Mmph” 

 

John hesitates and then pushes the drawer closed, relaxing back into Greg’s arms. Sherlock was always a furnace in the mornings too, but he was always curled in on himself, small and deceptively fragile looking, holding all his warmth away from John. Greg is wrapped around John, knee between John’s thighs. It is too warm, too close and John wants more, wants to not be able to tell where he stops and Greg starts. John pulls the lube under the blankets with him. He’s unsure why they decided sleeping in pants was a good idea last night, the thick dull line of Greg’s cock would feel much better against his skin without the two layers of pants. 

 

Greg nuzzles against John’s ear and John tenses, his body warring with his desires. He wants, possibly more than Greg is willing or able to give. John will take all he can get, thinks he knows how far he can press. He snakes his hand behind him, sliding in the sweat warm space between them and under the fabric of Greg’s pants. Greg’s hips rise to meet his hand. John pushes the fabric down before he curls his fingers around Greg. Awkward angles of elbow and wrist turning smooth as they move together. Greg’s fingers trail over John’s stomach, pulling him closer, the arm under his neck tightening, folding down to rub his thumb over John’s nipple. 

 

John pulls his hand from between them and Greg groans, pushing away John’s pants to replace the contact with the flesh of John’s back. John pushes his pants down the rest of the way, letting them rest against his thighs.

 

The lube hasn’t been under the blanket long enough to soak up any of their heat, but it isn’t cold enough to do any damage to Greg’s desire as John slicks a handful of it over Greg’s cock. Greg’s thumb catches on the curve of John’s arse, pulling him open enough that John can smear the head of Greg’s cock over his hole. He passes over the spot twice more before Greg pushes through John’s fingers and the head catches, stretching him open. John savours the slide of Greg through his fingers until there isn’t enough room between them for John’s hand. He turns his head to the pillow and snarls at the unrelenting pressure of Greg filling him. 

 

Greg doesn’t stop, just shifts his grip on John’s body, wraps his hand around the base of John’s cock and holds him. Firm pressure at the base and over his balls, enough that John can’t pull away but not really pulling him closer either. “Yeah, that’s good... you’ll take it all won’t you John?’

 

John wants to say something. Wants to beg for Greg to stop fucking talking and push farther, harder into him. He moves, bending at the waist and pulling his shoulders away from Greg, angling deeper and biting his lip against a moan. Greg’s hand tightens, circling his cock and pulling John closer. 

 

Greg licks over the curve of John’s shoulder blade. “Tell me John... Tell me you want me to fuck you hard.” His teeth catch on the back of John’s neck, curling close and whispering in John’s ear. “Tell me so I can fuck you until you scream for me to come in you.”

 

“ _Fuck, Jesus..._ Greg. _God._ I need it Greg, do it... please.” John shoves his hips back onto Greg’s cock as Greg moves behind him. Twisting them until John’s chest is pressed into the mattress and Greg is kneeling, spreading John’s legs open with his knees. John is pulled up, spread and Greg is covering him, arms hooked under John’s armpits, fingers digging into his shoulders. 

 

“Good, yeah, good boy John... Let me take you... I’ll take care of you.”

 

John whimpers as Greg drives his hips down into John, pushing him down into the mattress. Trying to pull himself up and brace on his elbows, give himself leverage to push back into Greg’s thrusts. Greg pulls back, one hand trailing up John’s spine to rest between his shoulders and the other pulling up on John’s hips. “It’s alright... shh sweetheart... just stay right there... you’re so tight for me...”

 

Greg draws back, fucking John in long full strokes that tease over John’s prostate. John relaxes into it, holding his body just tight enough to provide the amount of resistance Greg asked him for. The room fills with groans and the creak of the bed. Greg’s fingers tense and relax against John’s skin in time with the motions of his hips. He wants this to never end, but he huffs out a sigh of relief when Greg finally pulls back and slicks himself again. His brain catches up and realizes that he has been begging Greg to fuck him harder, begging to come and to feel Greg come inside him.

 

“God, you’re lovely... so good sweetheart... you’re fine, I know... you need my cock filling you up... I know you need it.” Greg’s hands trace over John’s sides, pull him back until his back is straight and his arms are stretched out over his head. John’s hands fist into the pillows, pushing them up against the headboard so he can brace. Greg holds his hips and pounds into him, the liquid sounds of flesh against flesh drowning out the sounds coming from John’s throat. 

 

It’s almost enough on it’s own. The force of Greg’s thrusts making him arch his back and his balls draw up. John feels it when Greg starts to come, the loss of rhythm in Greg’s thrusts and the twitching of Greg’s dick inside him. Greg pulls him up, forcing John’s hips down until he’s sitting up, impaling himself on Greg’s cock. Greg’s right hand is still slick with lube and his fist flies over John’s cock, his left reaches and finds John’s nipple, rubbing gently at it between his thumb and forefinger. 

 

John comes over Greg’s fingers, riding Greg’s still hard cock as the last of Greg’s orgasm pulses in John’s arse. “Fuck, _Greg,_ don’t stop.” 

 

Greg squeezes John’s nipple, slows his strokes on John’s cock but doesn’t stop. “That’s my good boy... So tight when you come... I could get hard again inside you.” Greg’s hips twitch again, pressing deep and matching it with a pull on John’s cock that forces more come from him. John goes boneless, his neck dropping his head back against Greg’s shoulder. “Mmm you’d like that sweetheart... I could keep you full of my cock all day.”

 

John laughs. “Jesus. The _mouth_ on you.” He slides his hand down, covers Greg’s on his cock and rocks his hips again.

 

“You have no idea.” Greg licks at the curve of John’s neck.

 

“Fuck... the spirit is willing...”

 

“I’ve also been told my full English is passable.” He pushes at John’s hips and lifts him off his softening cock. “Or we could try for round two in the shower?”

 

“Shower sex is ridiculous. Breakfast sounds a treat though... Speedy’s though, I... I don’t think there is anything in.”

 

Greg makes a vaguely disappointed noise and flops on his side. “Do you want first shower then?”

 

John grins and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “I never said no to shower sex... just that it is ridiculous... c’mon... I’ll scrub your back.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to a_xmasmurder for the read through... I might have broken her a bit... if we missed anything... it is entirely my fault.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter now has art. [By willietheplaidjacket ](http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com/post/64682047417/this-commission-was-requested-by-someone-who) which was commissioned by my lovely anon for my birthday


	3. The feelings much too strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John needs a new tattoo.
> 
> He just didn't know it.
> 
> Tattooing isn't really foreplay... well... probably isn't foreplay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Interrosand and badwolfbadwolf for the beta-ing and general wonderfulness. As always mistakes are my own.

“John?”

 

“Mary.” John spins away from the light table and the tracing work he is doing, something in her tone demanding his full attention.

 

“John. You need a new tattoo.”

 

He laughs, high and bright. “Do I now?” It’s summer, hot and muggy, everyone sane has run off to places with less pavement and haze. They haven’t had a walk-in in three days. Even the regulars are staying home, the promise of the shop’s air conditioning the only thing that pried John from 221B.

 

“You do.” Mary pulls her sketch book from behind her back and shows him a page. 

 

He looks it over and then looks up at her face. “Yeah, alright.”

 

Mary’s station is already set up, neat row of ink bottles set out, tiny measures already waiting for her to start.

 

“Confident.”

 

“John, I know you.” She snaps on her latex gloves and gestures, inviting him into the chair. “Where do you want it?”

 

John is already pulling his shirt up over his head. “Left arm. You mean you didn’t know where you wanted to put it?” He teases with the shirt covering his face and then preens a bit as she runs appreciative eyes over his body. “Not bad for an old man?”

 

Mary snorts. “Now who’s confident?”

 

John settles in the chair and lets his head rest against the cushion. “You looked.”

 

Mary runs the alcohol swab over his arm and then the razor. “Can’t blame a girl.”

 

John runs his eyes over Mary, watching the way she doesn’t look at him again. “What about your man in sales?”

 

“Six months in Hong Kong. We’re on a break, besides... we weren’t ever like that.” The transfer sticks to John’s skin. Mary’s placement is perfect and John doesn’t even have to get up to check it. Mary’s foot nudges the pedal into a better position and she leans over to start.

 

“You’d have to ask Greg.”

 

“Mmm.” Mary’s already gone, focused solely on his new arm piece. 

 

John watches her for awhile, until the flow of endorphins pulls him under and he lets his mind wander. It has been far too long since he’s gotten a tattoo; he really shouldn’t have clients, with no visible ink of his own. He can already feel the tease of desire for more; he’ll let Mary work on him, maybe give him a full sleeve. He thinks maybe she has already drawn out more for him. This piece is solid on its own, but it could also be the start of a larger piece. He smiles and relaxes back into the chair.

 

When she switches over to shading needles he winces. “Fuck, I hate shading.”

 

“Don’t be a baby, the singles are worse.”

 

“Hey, how is one worse than five?” 

 

Mary pulls his arm closer to her and continues the shading, not bothering to answer him.

 

“Sadist.” He says it fondly.

 

“Masochist.” She says it darkly, an invitation.

 

His cock responds to that, and he pushes around for the guilt he should be feeling. Greg’s practically moved into 221B, but they don’t have the sort of relationship John always thought he wanted. Lastly because Greg is a man, mostly because they don’t do traditional couple things. They are both so busy, work and separate lives, that they don’t do date nights. And it is fine, they crash together and fuck like rabbits when they find themselves in the same place at the same time. It is better, and John is happier than he has ever been... Greg is the one person he can talk about Sherlock with, and they don’t. John thinks he should be worried about that, seeing as how they both know there is a chance that Sherlock will come crashing back into their lives. For now they are happy, and John doesn’t feel like it is the sort of artificial happiness of having their heads in the sand. 

 

The door chimes when it opens and Mary pulls her hand away, snapping her attention back to the room. John’s head twists towards the door, futile as it is with the privacy screen in the way.

 

“John?” 

 

Mary stands and pokes her head around the screen. “I’ve got him here Greg. C’mon back.”

 

Mary sits and wipes a bit of excess ink off John’s shoulder, twisting her neck to loosen it before she returns to the tattoo.

 

Greg stands in the cubicle opening. “Hello, what’s this?”

 

“Mary told me I needed a tattoo.” John holds still as Mary fills in a detail, quick sharp bursts of shading in different spots. “There’s a spare chair in my booth if you want to stay.”

 

Greg nods and goes to fetch it, pulling his suit jacket off as he goes. The tail of his koi trailing out from under the short sleeves of his dress shirt. “Thank fuck the office is air conditioned. And all the baddies have taken off to the coast.” He rolls back on the chair and takes up the space on John’s other side. “You didn’t say you were getting a tattoo?”

 

“ _I_ didn’t know until she told _me_. Please help, she’s kidnapped me and is using me for her own nefarious ends.”

 

Mary and Greg make nearly identical noises in the backs of their throats, and John’s cock twitches. Maybe he does have a type after all. 

 

“John says I need to ask you about fucking him.” She says it like she is asking about the weather, or last night’s rugby scores, not looking up from John’s arm and casually reaching for more ink.

 

“ _Mary_!” John might die, or get dumped. He and Greg have never talked about this, but considering how things went with Rebecca, he thinks cheating is more than a bit not good in Greg’s books.

 

“Yeah, go on then.” Greg’s voice is equal parts amusement and arousal.

 

“Mine’s in Hong Kong for six months. John knows what I like.” She shrugs and looks up at Greg. “I’d just borrow him.”

 

“If I wanted to watch?” 

 

They are purposefully ignoring John now, and John thinks he might get whiplash from tossing his head back and forth.

 

Mary purrs. “Darling, you can watch,  you can even join in if you like.”

 

“Oi! Do I get a say in this?” It is surreal and more than a bit creepy that they are talking about him like he isn’t sitting between them. 

 

They both turn to look at him, and Greg speaks first. “Did you want to say no then?”

 

Mary’s fingers tighten around his arm and John swallows hard. “Jesus, just don’t talk... I’m sitting right here!”

 

Greg flicks his eyes over John and John blushes, reminded that he’s sitting there half-naked. Mary laughs and turns back to his arm. 

 

“Don’t worry Johnny boy, I think between the two of us you are in good hands.” Greg pats John’s leg and smiles wickedly at him. 

 

Mary doesn’t rush to finish the tattoo. If anything she draws it out, lingering over her line work. John surrenders, gives in as they proceed to have the most trivial conversation possible. In the six months since John started Greg’s tattoo Mary and Greg have become friends, and now they proceed to talk over John about films and the day to day of life. Whenever possible using the most sexually charged words they can.

 

At the third mention of thrusting John snaps. “You two planned this didn’t you?”

 

“I’ll never tell.” Mary purrs again and sets down her machine. “You... are done darling.” She sprays him down and wipes away the blood and ink, the cool spray like heaven on his skin. “Do you want to see?” 

 

“It’s fine.” The sun is low behind the buildings and there is enough shade to risk going out on the street. “Let’s go.”

 

Mary makes quick work of wrapping up his arm, and John winces as he stretches up to pull his shirt over his head. She bins all the things that need to be binned and takes her machine back to the sterilizer. She pops her head into Q’s office and tells him they are going out. He grunts in agreement and goes back to whatever he’s doing on the computer. John goes to tidy up his drawings, folding everything into his portfolio and tucking it back under his station’s desk. Greg spins in his chair until they finish. He’s learned to stay out of their way in the time he’s been around the shop.

 

“Do you do that at your office?”

 

“When no one is looking, yeah.” Greg smiles, the grin of an overgrown teenager. “They make them this way for a reason you know.”

 

“Alright. Put it back where you found it then.”

 

John groans as the waves of leftover heat rise up to meet him from the pavement. “The flat will be baking.”

 

“That Chinese you like has air conditioning.” Greg grins as John groans again.

 

“How can you eat in this heat?”

 

Mary matches Greg’s wolf smile. “Just think of it as carb loading, love.”

John’s mouth snaps closed on a response to that, and Greg and Mary laugh, hooking her arm around Greg’s as they lead the way to Greg’s car. They park across from Speedy’s and walk through the park to the Chinese.

 

At dinner John decides that if they are going to torture him he is going to enjoy it and starts licking sauce off his fingers and slurping his noodles. 

 

Mary pays the bill and John leans back in his chair, stomach comfortably full and latent desire thrumming in his veins. “ _Now_ , can we go home?”

 

It is properly evening when they leave the restaurant, and there is a cool breeze as they walk back across the park. Baker Street is quiet as they file through the front door of 221B. Greg tosses his jacket over the end of the couch and watches as Mary plasters herself against John. John’s desire goes from background noise to pounding in his veins and he lets her control the kiss, content to wander over her curves with his fingers. 

 

She breaks the kiss, pulling his shirt up over his head again and tossing it to the floor. He leans forward and catches her lips. “Bed?” John pulls her close and runs his hands over the curve of her lower back, grabbing her thighs and lifting her up, pushing her back against the sitting room door. “Or... here if you like.” 

 

She wraps her legs around John’s waist and lets her head drop back against the door. Even through the layers of clothes he can feel the warmth of her, and his cock fills. It has been ages, but he remembers the way she felt under him. He licks her neck, bites at her earlobe. “Fuck, I want to taste you.” His hips press forward, rubbing against her cunt and drawing a delicious sound from her. 

 

“Yeah, bed. Please.” She makes no move to release the hold of her legs on his hips, arms tight around his neck and hips moving in small circles against the press of his cock. He bites at her neck, savouring the way her thighs tighten around him every time he rocks into her. 

 

Greg presses a kiss onto John’s nape and leans tight against them, pushing John harder against Mary. “I’m going to watch you make her come with your mouth, and then I am going to fuck you into her. She’s been telling me how much you loved eating her out.” Greg wraps his arms around both of them, pulling Mary away from the door and pressing close to John from behind, rocking both of them against John. 

 

“ _Jesus_ , you two are going to kill me.”

 

*****************

John doesn’t remember, afterwards, the exact sequence of events that led from the sitting room door to all three of them naked in John’s bed. He does remember the feeling of Mary’s fingers tangled in his hair as he licked at her clit and Greg’s fingers buried to the webbing in John’s arse. He remembers the warm taste of her come, the shuddering sigh of relaxation that came with her orgasm. He remembers the feeling of Greg’s fingers rolling a condom down over John’s cock and then guiding him into Mary. The way that she wrapped around him and held him steady and open for Greg, kissing the taste of herself from John’s lips. The feeling that he was going to come instantly when Greg bottomed out inside him. The thought that if he was going to die he would very much like to do it with Mary’s hips rising up to meet his and Greg’s pushing him down. 

 

He doesn’t remember the sounds, the groans, and the begging. It must have been mostly him. He almost remembers the praise from Mary, the rush of air against the back of his skull that was Greg gasping for breath. 

 

He remembers feeling harder than he has since he was a teenager and the thought that his teeth were going to shatter. The release that came when Mary dragged her teeth over his nipple and he comes, shuddering and sobbing his pleasure. He remembers Greg moaning and dropping his head against John, coming all over John’s back. 

 

He remembers rolling off Mary, the feeling of her mouth wrapping around two of his fingers and sucking them before she pressed them into her cunt. He curled against her side and lapped at her nipple, trying to match the motion of his fingers inside her to the circles her fingers made on her clit. He remembers groaning into her skin when her cunt grabbed at his fingers and her back arched, the filthy wet sound of her come on his hand as he moved. 

 

The last thing he remembered was Greg growling, “That’s lovely... such a good boy John,” before the duvet covered all three of them and they slid into sleep.

 


	4. I'll be gentle with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and John eight months since Greg's tattoo... what are time lines?
> 
> This chapter contains men going at it... if that bothers you.... well I am not sure what you are... yeah... don't read this if you can't handle the man love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thousand kudos due to a_xmasmurder for the beta.
> 
> Mistakes added by me after she read it should be jotted down on a rock and tossed through my window.

John sits on the couch, feet on the coffee table and knees bent, compulsively rubbing lotion into the skin of his arm. He’s glad that it is summer and he can sit around the flat in his vest. If it was winter, the air cold in the flat and having to cover the tattoo up, having his skin flake and peel under his jumper... The thought makes him shudder and rub another handful of lotion into his skin. 

 

He’s trying to draw, trying to design another piece for Greg, something matching for his other arm. He’s failing horribly, balls of abandoned sketches litter the floor. The compulsion is there, to try, to find his connection to Greg in ink; the desire is less frantic, without being any less intense. He gets distracted by a drawing for Mary, lets his pencil take him where it will. 

 

The distinctive sound of the front door closing brings his head up, and he checks the clock on the mantle. He smiles at the sound of heavy feet on the stairs and when Greg enters the sitting room he brings with him the heady scent of curry and the clink of bottles from the off-licence next to their favourite Indian.

 

John’s smile widens as Greg kicks off his shoes and disassembles, scattering takeaway bags and his suit jacket, dropping himself onto the couch next to John. “Hullo.” John flips his sketchbook closed and slides it between the cushion and the arm of the couch.

 

John represses the urge to laugh; this isn’t how he imagined himself as a grown-up, he feels young and free, and the way Greg smiles as he roots through the takeaway bags makes John think he feels the same way. “Good day at work, dear?”

 

Greg huffs out a laugh. “A day without murder or mayhem is a good day in my books.”

 

John accepts his mutter paneer and a serving of rice. “Ta.” Greg twists open the caps on two of the beers and sets one on the table in front of John. 

 

“You look like you are having a rough one.” He nods at the scattering of balled up paper. 

 

John leans forward and lifts the bottle to his lips before he answers. “You sir, are exceptionally difficult to draw for.”

 

Greg makes a surprised noise around a mouthful of lamb curry and picks up one of the balled pages. When John makes no move to stop him he uncurls it and presses the paper flat over his knee. “The other arm?’

 

“Yeah. I wanted to balance... It is meant to be a Phoenix, it’s awful.”

 

Greg sets the flattened drawing down gently, on a clear patch of table. “Are they all like that?”

 

“There are a couple trees, another koi... Before you say it... I know they aren’t bad, they just aren’t what I wanted them to be.” He pauses and waves the plastic fork Greg had stuck in his curry. “I’m fairly certain Mrs. Hudson is hoarding them. Ask her to let you see the back catalogue.” John watches Greg’s eyes, can see him itching to unfold the other balls of paper. John holds up the sketchbook. “You can look through this if you like.”

 

Greg merely nods and sips his beer, contemplating John’s fingers as he eats. They’re quiet for a period of time, knees pressed together and the important task of inhaling spicy food their sole focus, until John reaches for the remote and finds an episode of Buzzcocks. They settle back and it is almost sweet, domestic until Greg reaches over and palms John’s cock through his trousers. John has a distinctly Pavlovian response to Greg’s presence, always partly hard when they are together. Eight months, he’d expected it to wear off, the kinds of pleasure Greg demands of him becoming routine. He allows himself to be drawn into Greg’s lap, enjoys the slow burn of desire Greg draws from him, hands teasing over John’s vest, blunted nails trailing down John’s back, over the curve of his belt. 

 

Greg tips him back and John’s arms tighten around Greg’s neck. The lurch in his stomach at the sudden movement countered by the way it presses their groins together... still too many clothes in the way to be more than a tease. He laughs as Greg reaches behind him blindly and grabs the remote off the table, thumbing the power button. 

 

“Had enough?” John rolls his hips, enjoying the dark sounds that Greg makes when Greg’s cock settles behind John’s balls.

 

“Not remotely.” Greg squeezes the backs of John’s thighs before sliding John off his lap. “Bed.”

 

John goes, resisting the urge to quip _Yes, sir._ Pulling his vest up over his head and opening his belt and fly before he even makes it to their bedroom. Greg’s only a step behind, but John’s already in just his pants by the time Greg pushes the door closed. 

 

John turns to Greg, pondering the many ways he knows to get Greg down to his skin. “I think I was having trouble drawing... I couldn’t stop thinking about sucking you off. Do you have any idea how distracting you are?” It is incredibly cheesy, but it has the fortunate side effect of spurring Greg to unbutton his shirt and open his fly. John laughs as the weight of Greg’s keys pulls his trousers down and Greg kicks them off. 

 

 

They crash together, frantic kisses and clawing at the other’s pants. It ends with Greg propped up against the headboard and John pushed down between his legs. John takes his time, winds his way over the skin of Greg’s stomach, licks the crease of his hip. John watches Greg tense as he trails his mouth closer to his cock. “God, look at you, one mention of my mouth...” John licks a stripe up Greg’s stomach parallel to his cock, the faintest brush of John’s cheek along the sensitive skin. “Go on then... Make me take it.”

 

Greg curls his hand over the crown of John’s head, running his fingers gently through John’s hair. John closes his eyes and turns his head into Greg’s wrist, he allows the pressure from Greg’s cock to push past his lips. Greg moves slowly, lifting his hips at the same rate he pushes John’s head down until they meet at the back of John’s throat and John is forced to swallow hard against his gag reflex. He swallows again as Greg pushes deeper, the small noise of his cut off inhalation swallowed by the sound of Greg’s groan.

 

Greg digs his fingers into John’s hair, holding him steady as he pulls his hips back. He fucks John’s mouth slowly, long strokes that push over John’s molars. Anytime you have another man’s cock balls deep in your mouth is probably not the best time for a sexual identity crisis... but fuck... John loves this. Can’t imagine the time before he knew that he loves this. Aches with the knowledge that he had been missing out on this for the better part of his life. 

 

Greg drops his hips back to the mattress and his fingers tighten in John’s hair, bobbing his head, shallow movements over the head of Greg’s cock. 

 

“That’s my good boy, roll over and get your arse up here.” 

 

John keeps his eyes closed as he shifts against the mattress, just barely pulling his mouth free long enough to adjust to the change in angle. Greg rolls onto his side and lifts one leg, shifting his grip on John’s head to the nape of his neck. Greg licks at him, mouthing at his foreskin, teasing flicks of tongue. John resists the urge to buck, moaning around Greg’s cock, sets a long slow rhythm that Greg pushes his hips against only occasionally. 

 

He’s lost in it when he registers the lack of Greg’s hand on the back of his skull, the twisting at the waist and the rolling sound of the bedside table drawer. He makes an inquisitive noise around the fullness in his mouth, but the only answer is the flat warmth of Greg’s hands against his inner thighs, propping him open, the brush of knuckles over his cock and balls and the click of the lube.

 

John adds prostate stimulation to the list of things he enjoys very much, thank you. Greg’s fingers know exactly where to go and how to stroke over the spot to encourage John to forget his gag reflex. 

 

Greg pulls back, pressing his hips forward to look down at John. “That’s good... isn’t that better... all full of my cock?”

 

John’s breath hitches and his tongue snakes around Greg’s shaft, the only form of agreement he is capable of giving. Greg pulls his hips back, and John opens his eyes to watch the slide of Greg’s cock over his lips. Greg’s fingers slide from him just as the head of his cock rests on John’s lips. John closes his eyes again, fighting to keep his hips still, to not chase after Greg’s fingers. He lets his tongue travel over the sensitive places on Greg’s cock, filthy figure eights between the slit and the frenulum.  

 

He’s not ashamed of the drawer full of toys beside the bed, the year before Greg walked back into his life was a lonely one, but in the eight months since, Greg hasn’t mentioned them. The thick pressure as one of them slides into him now is a shock, but John’s brain short circuits completely because Greg pushes his hips forward, sliding deeper into his mouth. It isn’t identical, but it is close enough that John is grunting and shaking after the first stroke. _God, please Greg... fuck... just touch... god please..... oh god that feels so good please please._

 

When Greg bottoms out on the second stroke and switches the vibration on John knows which toy it is, and he knows that it is only on the lowest setting. Greg settles, far enough away from John’s cock that there is no chance of his mouth accidently pressing against it, and... how is it possible, he _can’t_ have this much self control... Greg fucks John’s mouth slowly, idly, like John can’t feel the pulse of blood under his skin and taste the salt tang of precome on his tongue. His hips roll, his whole body moving in response to Greg, accepting, until there’s nothing but the taste of Greg’s skin in his mouth and the low buzz of pleasure coming from his arse. 

 

The vibration grows, filling him until the nerves fire across his shoulders, something clicks in his brainstem and he is coming. Shaking and groaning, slack jawed around Greg’s cock, choking himself as his body convulses and forces Greg’s cock into his throat. Greg’s hands are everywhere, shutting off the vibration but pumping the vibrator into him, matching his demented twitching with smooth thrusts. His mouth covers John’s cock, sucks hard and pulls another wave of pleasure from him.

 

John is spent and boneless when Greg’s hands cup his head, holding him still while he takes. John groans and does his best to makes his mouth tight and wet. 

 

“Yeah, _fuck_ yeah... here you go. That’s fucking _gorgeous._ So good John. Such a good _fuck_ , I’m coming down your throat. Look at you, fucking gorgeous with my come in your mouth.”

 

John swallows, keeps swallowing as Greg presses him close. He wishes it would last longer, he wants to stay pressed close to Greg, wants to turn himself into a receptacle for Greg’s pleasure. This isn’t what love is supposed to feel like, this constant need for another person’s bodily fluids. Love is something pure and clean, Greg makes John filthy... makes him want to be dirty. If this isn’t love... well, John can live with that.

 

John sighs as Greg pulls him up, replaces his cock with his tongue, strokes fingers over John’s spine. Sobs when the dildo is pulled from him, wants to beg Greg to leave it in, but the words get lost against Greg’s lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've given up and marked this as a Wip... but I have no schedule for the posting of it... I will try and leave each chapter somewhere... not cliff-edged. As they come to me.
> 
> Also if you were wondering... yes... it is _the bright pink toy_


	5. If this is love, we are crazy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blessings to a_xmasmurder and Interrosand for the betas. All mistakes have been added by me.

It builds and builds until John feels like he is choking on it. His mum used to tell him not to swallow seeds because he’d have a plant growing in his stomach, and it feels like that. He’s been turned into fertile ground, vines and creepers growing outward until all he can feel is need.

****

He’s still perfectly functional; he goes to the shop, sees clients and doesn’t wax rhapsodic on the merits of sucking Greg Lestrade’s cock. He wants to though, the urge… and well he could probably talk to Mary about it. _That_ wouldn’t be awkward at all.

****

It is a relief to get Greg back into the chair, he’d been surprised that Greg had agreed to a second sleeve, and avoided thinking about gift horses. It is different this time, Greg watches while John tattoos. John almost comes in his pants when he feels the shift in Greg’s body, the threshold crossed between pain and pleasure.

****

He finishes the tattoo, wraps Greg’s arm without asking if he wants to see it first. Greg doesn’t complain, his head pressed back against the chair and his eyes closed. He could be asleep, but John knows that he is only waiting for John to finish the rest of his closing ritual. He’s thankful for the space it gives him, not having to feel the weight of Greg’s stare while he cleans his station. John opens his mouth to say something, but Greg swings his legs over the side of the chair and pulls himself to standing. John looks, and then turns on his heel and heads for the door. Mary is closing tonight and he croaks out a farewell to her before he’s alone with Greg on the street and Greg is waving down a cab.

****

The cab ride is strained. They won’t become a headline by getting caught shagging in the back of a black cab. Greg would be in enough trouble if it came out he was shagging a former suspect. Gravity seems to be working against John as he climbs the stairs. He fidgets, torn between going to make tea and just stripping off all his clothes and… and that is where his brain stops working entirely. He doesn’t know what Greg wants, he waits, holding his breath until Greg tilts his head.

****

“C’mere.” Greg opens his fly and kicks off his shoes as John crosses the room. Greg stops, reaches out and pulls John to him. John goes, feeling like a puppet whose strings have finally been gathered up. He lets Greg pull his shirt over his head, stands with his hands at his sides as Greg traces fingers over his skin; shudders at the sensation of Greg’s tongue flicking against his collarbone, at the graze of teeth.

****

“God, I want you. All the time, _jesus_ , John.”

****

John’s hands begin to work on their own accord, sliding into Greg’s pants and working over the head of his cock, pushing back fabric to reveal skin. He doesn’t say anything as he folds down in front of Greg, just presses his lips against the skin beside Greg’s navel. Greg’s hands shift, running gently through John’s hair, a trace of nails. John closes his eyes as the head of Greg’s cock passes his lips. John wants to believe that the twitching of Greg’s fingers in his hair means more than just desire…  

****

He moves, slow and sure. He’s content, more than, on his knees in the sitting room of 221B, the early autumn sun warm on his back and thighs. It is easier than he’d ever imagined possible, and not at all what he expected love to feel like. It probably isn’t. This is just what lust turns into when the edges are worn down.

****

John knows Greg’s body well enough, the tension in his thighs and the way he breathes, sharp and quick. John could keep going, take Greg over the edge, but he’s greedy and wants to feel for himself as well… so he pulls free and pushes himself up to standing. He lets Greg kiss and crowd him back towards the sofa. There’s a little box on the coffee table that hides a tube of lubricant. John kicks off his shoes and Greg’s fingers work his fly open. John looks over Greg’s shoulder and checks that the sitting room door is locked, and then he is naked, pressed down onto the couch with Greg between his legs. His arm flails out and catches hold of the box, fingers working to open it. He has to give up and grab the table leg when Greg moves their hips together, lifting John’s hips and pushing his legs apart.

****

The scratching noise of the table across the hardwood makes them both wince, but it pulls Greg’s attention back, his eyes tracing the line of John’s arm. Greg bats the lid off the box and their hands close over the tube at the same time. Greg relinquishes control and leans back to watch John stroke his hand over Greg’s cock. They fit together now, Greg knows exactly how hard and fast to push, John’s body adjusting the angle until both of them groan.

****

John’s hips circle three times, slow, small movements that force his cock through his fist. Greg lifts John’s left leg and hooks it up over the back of the sofa, holding as still as he can while John works his hand over his cock, the tiny motions of John’s hips make Greg twitch. John might have bruises on his ankle in the morning, hopes he will, from the grip Greg has on it.

****

Greg’s eyes drift between John’s fist and the barely visible root of his cock. There’s something in the way he watches that makes John harder, sends shockwaves through him, muscles contract and Greg groans.

****

The webbing of Greg’s hand doesn’t quite fit around the back of John’s knee, it’s sharp and just this side of distracting; John stares at the spot, feels displaced, it can’t be part of them. He wonders idly if he could get away with tattooing Greg’s hand… no of course not, he’ll have to get Mary to give him a star on the spot where Greg’s thumb is resting. Maybe he could teach Greg to do it, give him marks.

****

John’s head digs into the sofa cushion, his eyes falling closed and his neck stretched back, hips moving up, pushing back against Greg’s thrusts. His hand speeds, the sharp sting of the idea… Greg tattooing fingerprints on John’s skin. All the soft, tender places Greg has put his hands. He can hear the sound the machine would make as it digs into his skin.

****

Warmth curls in John’s belly as Greg’s thrusts deepen, the stretch of his groin muscles as Greg pushes his knees farther apart, slamming his weight into John, pushing air from John’s lungs in groans and fragments of words. The words stop forming, pleasure gathering itself up from his fingers and toes, pushed into him with every thrust. His body tenses and he can hear Greg. The words are praise, but they sound like begging. John’s free hand stretches over his head, braces against the sofa and he arches under Greg, closing the last distance between them.

****

Greg comes, groaning and shaking, head thrown back. John watches him writhe, a triangle of sunlight from the window highlighting the muscles over his ribs as he works his hips.

****

When Greg loosens his hold on John’s legs he relaxes, lets his own orgasm build and wash over him, reaching for Greg, the sun-warmed skin vibrating with his moan. John digs his heel into the couch, working his hips through his orgasm, grinding against Greg.

****

“Jesus, _fucking_ , Christ… Greg.”

****

Greg slides free and half collapses on top of John, there isn’t room for both of them on the couch… not like this, and they shift and sit up when their breathing returns to normal. John reaches for his pants and swipes them over his chest. Naked and sticky, he wants nothing more than to curl up and sleep.

****

“We’re too old to shag on the couch like this.”

****

“We’re really not.” Greg looks serious for a moment and then pulls away, holding out his hands to help John up. “C’mon, we should get… we should shower. We’ll go down to Angelo’s and eat.”

****

John hums agreement and lets Greg pull him down the hall. “It’s a date.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. Anything that happens after this will be reunion... and I... well actually I will probably write it fairly soon... because it is echoing around in my head... but I need to do things with deadlines first.


End file.
